Poetry. I can’t write it, I can’t read it, and I can’t critique it. Why not, you ask? Why should I tell you, I ask? Here ends the post.
Goodness, you are annoying. You must want more than that, and yet you’re too stubborn to ask. I ended the post early expecting you to ask, and you don’t!
Oh, well. I’ll go on, don’t you fret.
When I read anything, I read pretty quickly. If something isn’t too interesting, I’m scanning, using only seconds for each paragraph. Even if it is interesting, I’m still going pretty fast. And that’s with prose.
When it’s poetry and the lines
are like this
my eyes start speeding up
until I’m going
at a rate of
two lines per
I’ll start skipping stanzas and
before I know it
And that’s why you should
feed a platypus
My eyes begin to speed up when I see short lines. It’s just the way I read. Unfortunately, it leads to large holes in the middle of poems that are probably well written. If the lines don’t rhyme, even worse occurs. Usually when I read rhyming poetry I’ll be looking for the rhyming words at the end, and if there are none I’ll realize it and start skipping entire lines, then stanzas. The same happens with irregular amounts of syllables. In regular poetry, the syllable amounts match, the words rhyme, and I can probably get by if I slow myself down sufficiently by counting out the separate syllables with taps. But it doesn’t happen often.
I must confess that in books like the Redwall series I would always skip over the songs. Why put songs in literature, anyway? It doesn’t make much sense to me.
That brings me to another point. Why can I tolerate songs? Regular music with words? Because, duh, it’s music. I’m hearing it, not reading it. My mental acceleration only occurs in reading.
I can’t write poetry because I can’t study the good stuff. The only reason I can write prose well is because I’ve grown up studying the right way to do it. If I can’t read poetry, I can’t write it either. And for me, poetry is not instinct. I can barely get together a list of five rhyming words without half of my brain cells popping off into oblivion.
And all of this leads to my last point: I cannot critique poetry either.
If you can’t write it and you can’t read it, you can’t be expected to write a review or give thoughts on poetry. Sorry, but I can’t do it and I won’t try. So there! *throws temper tantrum*
For you poets out there: This is not just an enormous ploy to get you to stop expecting me to critique your stuff. It’s my failing, not yours, so don’t be offended in the slightest.
And, to back up my points in this post, here is some poetry that came to me recently as perfect for the Phils’ theme song:
Past, present, future,
We’ll do without a suture,
If you’ll only put your* trust in Phils!
*”Put your” to rhyme with “future” and “suture”